“First of all, Mr. Claus, I object to your use of the term “good,” as being vague and ambiguous. “

By Matt Valenti

When traffic in the right lane of Route 163 South slows to a crawl for two miles between the 805 merge and Friars Road, it must be Christmastime in San Diego.

I found myself suffering through this traffic last weekend for my daughters’ obligatory annual photo op with Santa Claus at Fashion Valley Mall.

I expected the traffic, of course, and expected it would take me at least an hour of circling through the parking lot looking for a spot, after dropping my wife and girls off outside of Nordstrom’s.

But what I didn’t expect when I finally caught up with them was just how little progress they’d made towards the promised land of Santa’s capacious lap.

Instead of being within sight of the billowing white masses of polyester batting and enormous electric candy canes of Santa’s Village, they were waiting in the far off, desolate reaches of J.C. Penny’s Window Coverings department. If Santa’s Village was the North Pole, they were somewhere in the tip of Argentina. And their festive holiday spirit was waning. Considerably. To say the least.

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All three of them were screaming at the top of their lungs, and not the lyrics to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

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I found them poised in a sort of interlocking, modern art sculpture. My wife appeared to be engaged in a game of tug-of-war, both hands clutching desperately to one empty sleeve of my daughter Alexandra’s “Peace on Earth” sweater, while Alexandra’s own hands were deeply entwined in the hair of her little sister Elsie, who was inexplicably hanging upside down from a bronze curtain rod mounted to the wall six feet off the ground. All three of them were screaming at the top of their lungs, and not the lyrics to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

When I first approached this scene I tried ducking behind a leopard-print shower curtain, but it was too late. They saw me.

“What on earth is taking them so long?” my wife fumed as she let go of Alexandra’s sweater, sending her tumbling to the tiled floor just as her sister plummeted down on top of her.

I was about to relate how much trouble I’d endured finding a parking spot, but thought better of it and merely shrugged stupidly.

“Well why don’t you go find out?” she said, “This line hasn’t moved an inch in nearly an hour!”

I nodded hastily (and, need I say, gratefully) and scurried off on my mission before she could change her mind and decide to station me with the girls, who by now were busying themselves trying to push each other down the escalator.

On my way to Santa’s Village I stopped at the food court for a slice of pizza and a beer –which I considered a necessary refueling operation – and felt revived and ready for anything. That’s more than I could say for the children and their haggard looking parents waiting near the end of the line to see Santa. At the rate the line was moving some of these kids would reach puberty before they reached Santa’s Village.

Surely he must be taking his lunch break, I thought to myself, and shuddered at the likelihood – this being California – that he was a Union Santa. Even the elves were no doubt making at least minimum wage, and expecting a couple of ten minute paid breaks a day on top of it.

But no, union thugs weren’t to blame for this delay; Santa was in fact on duty, and hard at work.

It was the boy perched on his knee that was holding everything up. And he wasn’t actually a boy. He was a full-grown man, in a well-tailored suit, with a jewel-encrusted yellow and blue thunderbolt pinned to his lapel.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” bellowed Santa. “You’re going to have to speak a little louder, Dan. Santa’s hearing is not what it used to be, you know. Now what did you say you wanted for Christmas?”

The man with the thunderbolt pin smiled broadly and blushed, and seemed unable to speak from the excitement.

That’s when I saw another man step forward. He too was dressed in a suit, and with a chipper, handsome face and full head of silver hair looked reminiscent of Phil Donahue, only with slightly less bushy eyebrows. “His name’s not Dan, Mr. Claus,” said the man. “It’s Dean. And I’m Mark, his lawyer.”

The Donahue look-alike deftly tucked a business card into Santa’s gloved hand and smiled.

Santa looked somewhat confused but accepted the card with grace, giving it a polite look through his wire glasses. “Okay then, Dean,” he said, turning his attention back towards the man sitting on his lap, “What would you like for Christmas?”

Dean continued to blush, and seemed too bashful to speak for himself, so his lawyer chimed in. “He wants a new stadium for his football team, Mr. Claus.”

Hearing this, Dean’s mouth curled into a broad grin and he nodded ecstatically.

“His old stadium down the street is falling apart,” continued the lawyer. “Well, sort of, anyway. And he’s been asking for a new one for an awfully long time.”

Santa chuckled joyfully. He’d heard this sort of thing before. “And have you been a good little boy – er, man, this year?” he asked.

The lawyer held up his hand to caution Dean not to speak. “First of all, Mr. Claus, I object to your use of the term “good,” as being vague and ambiguous. On Dean’s behalf, I will answer that question only insofar as to state that Dean has not been found guilty of any crime or misdemeanor that he is required by law to disclose, during the twelve month period preceding today’s date.”

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“I see,” said Santa. “Well, you know Dean, stadiums are a little too big for me to fit on my sleigh. How about a nice set of golf clubs instead?”

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“I see,” said Santa. “Well, you know Dean, stadiums are a little too big for me to fit on my sleigh. How about a nice set of golf clubs instead?”

This provoked an outburst of angry squeals, foot stomping, and sullen looks from the man on the jolly elf’s knee. “No want golf clubs,” he cried. “Want! New! Stadium!”

Several of Santa’s elves rushed over and tried to sooth him with candy canes.

“Now now, Dean. Santa Claus may be magic, but he can’t do everything. Can’t you ask your Daddy for a new stadium?”

The lawyer spluttered and said, “Don’t go there, Mr. Claus. His father didn’t get to be a billionaire by sharing the wealth, you know. That’s why Dean here has been asking the city to pay for at least eighty percent of his new stadium.” Here the lawyer leaned in close to Santa and said with a wink, “Although, between you and me, Claus, he’d settle for seventy-five. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Santa closed his eyes and nodded sagely. “But what do the people of your fair city seem to think? I’m not from around here so I wouldn’t know.”

The lawyer placed his fingertips together and paused dramatically, as if he were about to make a closing argument to a jury. “In principle, Mr. Claus,” he said, “it doesn’t matter a jot what they think. Oh, they love their team, of course. Not quite enough to fill up all the seats, it’s true – although sales of our jerseys are still brisk. Unfortunately, though, there’s a vocal minority in our city who are pooh-poohing the idea of funding Dean’s new stadium. They’re a bunch of ignorant barbarians, no better than a mob of Raiders fans when the beer runs out, and they’re poisoning the discourse with their ludicrous assertions.”

“Like what?” asked Santa.

“Oh, they’re claiming the people of the city have more important things to do with their money.” (Here Dean suddenly perked up with indignation on Santa’s lap and scoffed loudly.)

“Such as?” inquired the old elf.

“Like hiring more teachers, police and firefighters, or fixing sidewalks, or having longer hours at the – get this – at the library!” The lawyer shook his head in disgust.

“And isn’t it your job to convince them that they’re wrong?”

The lawyer went pale as Dean shot him an accusatory look. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “But I don’t have quite as big a soapbox as I’d like to have, which is why Dean here has his friend Papa Doug hard at work, too. It’s a team effort after all, isn’t it Dean?”

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Santa cupped his hand to his ear. “Papa who?”

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Santa cupped his hand to his ear. “Papa who?”

“Papa Doug,” said the lawyer. “He’s a major developer in town, builds lots of big projects, and he recently bought himself the daily newspaper. Uses it to tell the people that what’s good for him and his friends is good for the city. And report news.”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” laughed Santa. “Now you’ve lost me there. Did you just say this ‘Papa Doug’ is a big developer, and he knows all about building big things?”

“He sure does, Mr. Claus,” said the lawyer.

“Then why on earth doesn’t Papa Doug just build little Dean the stadium himself, then? Instead of going the roundabout way of buying a newspaper first?”

The lawyer froze, and slinking a few steps backwards, seemed as if he wished he could disappear into the fluffy fake snow cascading off the roof of Santa’s little cottage.

Falling from Santa’s lap and onto the floor, Dean burst into tears and began wailing so loudly, which triggered the mall security to rush over. In another moment I was hustled behind barricades where I could no longer see Santa, the elves, Dean, or his Donahueesque lawyer.

But by then I’d seen more than enough. Christmas is a season of joy, and peace, and goodwill, but it can also take a lot out of you.

I made my way back to my wife and kids, who were by now in the full throes of an epic hunger and impatience meltdown, my wife especially.

“Girls,” I said, “there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. Now let’s go home.”

Matt Valenti is the author of The Newts: A Political Satire of Mythic Proportions